


Tattoo

by CC_Writes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Bad Jokes, Fluff, Grif is a man of many talents, M/M, Romantic Tension, Self destructive thoughts, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Tattoos, Transhumanism, transhumanist themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC_Writes/pseuds/CC_Writes
Summary: An idea that got stuck in my head. Based on the matching tattoos their VA's both have on their necks.Before the accident, Simmons got his first (and only) tattoo, after the accident, it was gone. So Grif does something to fix it and Simmons angsts about it.





	Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based on an idea that crawled into my head a long time ago and never left. At one point (in a psa I think) it was stated that Grif has a tattoo on his neck, which Geoff also has. Someone later realized that Gus has the same kind of tattoo in the same place on his neck as well, which got me wondering what if Simmons had one? And if he did, would they match? and why? and where did he get it?
> 
> (Geoff's tattoo is the House of Dragonetti (High Society Vampire mages) Gus's tattoo is the Tribe of Kobijitsu (Basically Vampire ninjas) )

 

 

        The work room was fairly quiet save for the oddly soft clinking sound of Grif rummaging through various drawers and boxes looking for the right tools. It made sense though if Simmons thought about it, it was night time or at least the time both teams had somehow designated as night in this shit-hole canyon with its sun that never set. He could almost believe it too with the dim "lights out" lights that came on after, well, lights out, leaving the whole base dark, the sun only visible through the slits and door on the upper and outer level. So it made sense that things would be quiet, the way real night seemed to toy with sound, making it simultaneously softer and louder than normal.

Simmons let out a breath that was a little too shaky for his liking and shifted awkwardly on the metal folding chair. He was absolutely 1000% not going to get anxious about this. There was no reason to. He'd done this before and nothing bad had happened. Then again he'd been completely human before so now that he was... Barely human? Not even? Maybe it would be different? Have its own set of unique complications that he hadn't even considered?! He'd been extremely thorough in his research the first time, but there wasn't anything on the subject concerning cyborgs, it really was unprecedented!

Damn it! This was all his Father's fault!

Simmons immediately felt a sharp stab of guilt at the thought, hot and molten churning in his stomach, or whatever amalgamation of junk Sarge had replaced it with, followed by the unsettling feeling of his face simultaneously paling and flushing in shame. As though the man could hear what he'd thought and would storm in demanding to know just what he thought he was doing?

He swallowed the lump in his throat and viciously willed his stomach to settle. It was fine. It was fine...

All this fuss over a silly little tattoo.

It was true though. Almost every guilty feeling associated with misbehaving was something his father had beaten into him and tattoos were no exception. They were the calling card of delinquent and criminal behavior, only people with sub par, neanderthal, level intellect would even consider getting one. It was a great way to ruin your chances at any sort of valid career one could hope to have. Just throw your life away on one stupid choice, all because you just _had_ to prove something.

He took another deep breath. Maybe it was easier the first time because he'd been kind of drunk? Both when he'd agreed and when he'd let Grif do it? The first obviously being just a rare (but not so rare) poor (but really not so poor) choice to drink with Grif off hours leading to stupid ideas, and stupid confessions, and bouts of "oh man you know what we should do!?"s. The second time because they were going to do this "prison style" and it was probably going to hurt like a bitch.

 

 

To his credit, and lord knows he couldn't give Grif too much or he'd hang them both with it, the other man had clearly known what he was doing and was disturbingly good at it, despite lacking all manner of proper tools and making due with a guitar (or maybe ukulele? ) string, a handful of black pens (stolen from blue base during a "raid", glory to red team!) and bits of other miscellaneous crap. Just another odd and inexplicable talent Grif seemed to have. But, it hadn't been nearly as bad as he was expecting it to be.

It had stung, obviously, it couldn't not when you were literally being stabbed over and over. But, it hadn't been the cutting pain he'd expected, instead, it was more a dull throb, with a bit of a burn to it, after a sharp prick. Kind of felt like a nasty sunburn really.

Hadn't even bled, though according to Grif it wasn't supposed to, "If it bleeds more than just like, a little spotting, it means you went too far. Ink is supposed to be under the skin not inside the body. That shit is rule one!"

He kind of just took Grip's word for it, the urge to double check that itched at the back of his brain for a few days but he'd won out against it in the end. Was for the best, because he knew, he KNEW, if he checked that he'd be subjected to the insane amount of photos of "tattoos gone wrong!" (again) that accompanied any search. Wonder anyone ever got them at all.

But he had and there had been no complications, no infection, just some soreness and a thick white bandage, that when removed had left him with a small, pristine, jet black tattoo on the back of his neck. An assemblage of small circles, dots, and rectangular lines with immaculately crisp edges, a skewed reflection of sorts to the one on the back of Grif's own neck.

 

 

That wasn't the only one Grif had, it wasn't the most elaborate one either. But, it was the one Simmons had been able to identify at first glance. In fact, it was one of the things they had in common. Cuz, see, the tattoo was from Blade, an old ass comic book series on earth about a vampire hunter, who was himself half vampire. It was stupid and cheesy and violent as fuck, and Simmons had LOVED it as a kid, particularly when he hit puberty and was secretly, or not so secretly, angry with the world. Judging by the slight fade on the tattoo, Grif had too, probably was his first one, though Simmons had never confirmed that. The best part was that it wasn't Blade's tattoo, it's existence dependent on continuity, it was actually a tattoo given to human thralls, or servants, of the various vampire clans. And that was equal parts hilarious and amazing.

Unfortunately, it had taken getting drunk together one night that wasn't night after lights out for Simmons to get the courage to say anything about it, and it had been a rather graceless, "So house of Dragonetti huh?".

 

Smooth. Flawless. No wonder you're so popular.

 

But, somehow that turned out to be the correct thing to say because Grif had replied with, "Well hot damn you really are a nerd ain't cha? You got a problem with it?"

To which Simmons had retorted, "No, just never pegged you as the 'royal' prissy magic type."

"And I suppose you think there's a better one, huh?"

"Tribe of Kobejitsu, duh." Perfect accent and perfect pronunciation, yes!

"Oh my god I take it back, you're not a massive nerd, you're a massive weeb!"

They'd spent the better part of that night debating which was better, mages or ninjas. Obviously, it was ninjas, ninjas were always cool. No question. And they had red eyes, **red eyes** , you couldn't compete with that.

 

At some far off point, many hang outs and drinking sessions later, when the subject of Grif's tattoos came up again the likely inevitable suggestion was made, Simmons should get one too. As previous, being drunk was probably what had overridden Simmons' instinctive and panicked “no!” and turned it into a “yes!”. Then there was the matter of when he should get it and how, because there are no tattoo parlors in Blood Gulch, (or near Blood Gulch, or on the same planet as Blood Gulch) to which Grif immediately volunteered himself and as soon as he could get the right tools, to fill out said questions. Which lead, obviously, to what kind of tattoo and where on Simmons' body it would be, which was difficult for two reasons, the first being that Simmons was not comfortable, drunk or not, missing articles of clothing around teammates for long periods of time, the second being that for some reason Grif had a concerning plethora of ideas for tattoos that would look good on him, each larger and more elaborate than the last.

Simmons shot them all down.

Finally, Grif had huffed indignantly, as though Simmons had insulted his house and put a pox on his cows, and gestured to the back of his own neck, “What about this one? What about one like that?”

“I don't wanna be a Dragonetti!”

“No dumb shit! Not this tattoo, _like_ this tattoo. Can do your vampire ninja shit.”

Simmons had drunkenly pondered this, “Yeah... Okay, that would be cool.”

“Not cooler than throwing magic at shit.”

“Oh, it's so much cooler.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Fucking fight me!”

But it was a good idea, and he'd gone with it, they'd gathered the shit they needed, gotten Simmons suitably drunk, and had done it.

And it was fucking cool! In that it was stupid, and a bad idea, but kind of an innocent bad idea? Like... Yeah, it was dumb, but it was the fun kind of dumb. And it was... kind of nice to have something more concrete in common with Grif.

 

It was cool.

 

 

Then the accident happened, he lost... everything... It didn't look it from the outside, but he... Wasn't really human anymore. Just a machine hiding inside roughly half of a human skin suit. Only thing human left was his brain, maybe, he did sometimes wonder about that too...

But it had happened, the surgery had happened, then it was over, and they were left to deal with the aftermath, and it was shit for a while. Probably worse than anything they'd ever experienced individually, and probably also something he and Grif would never really be able to talk about. Even just acknowledging the change could make things... Not okay.

But it was... Better? Now. They'd started hanging out again and of course drinking, and it finally felt more normal again, or whatever passed for that; and, just the other night, between taking swigs from that bottle of malt liqueur Grif had found somewhere, (or more likely stolen from someone) the larger man had brought it up.

“We should put your Tattoo back.” … Stellar.

It was a stupid thing to say, because Simmons' neck was metal now, not that Grif had it, (because if he'd needed it he'd have been dead) but because it was just necessary, couldn't lay wire under the skin, wouldn't heal right, couldn't leave it exposed either, if it broke or came loose or any number of other terrible things that could happen, he would experience immediate catastrophic organ failure and drop the fuck dead. Which of course he'd started thinking about, and babbling about, and why had Grif brought it up? Panic attacks were even worse with robotic parts and **NOW** he was thinking about that too and-!

Grif had broken him out of it with surprising speed, by way of putting his hand over Simmons' mouth to shush him and had looked at him with such seriousness that the spiraling panicking thoughts had ground to a halt and been dashed to silence on the floor.

“Do you want it back? Like for real? Not drawn on and shit, like permanently there?”

And fuck he did, hadn't even realized how much he did. Like it was something of his he could get back, something he had gotten to choose and he could have it back. The very idea of having it again made something in his chest ache.

He'd nodded, and Grif had been kind enough not to mention the tears welling in his eyes.

“Cool, we'll do it tomorrow then, can't do this shit drunk. Bad idea, trust me on that.”

 

 

 

So here they were. In a dim room, in a dark base, while Grif hunted around for the right tools or at least something that would suffice.

Because the equivalent to a tattoo for metal was an engraving.

Because of fucking course, Grif could do that too.

He really was bizarrely skilled for a guy who made a career out of doing nothing whatsoever.

“Ah Ha! Knew it!”

Simmons heard Grif walk over to him, heard him unceremoniously drop the tools he'd found on the metal workbench with an unholy clatter that had them both wincing for a moment, looked like the right sort of things, pretty small too, thin tools with flat ends sharpened in a wedge, ones that looked almost like giant needles or nails with grips on the end, and a marker.

“Knew we'd have detailing shit, bet you Sarge uses these to write his name on all his guns.

Simmons couldn't stop the snort that escaped him because he absolutely could see that.

“We should make sure Donut doesn't find out about these or he'll try to decorate every gun in the base with them, probably the Warthog too, and Lopez.”

Grif snickered, “Oh my fuck I almost want to tell him just to watch that, Lopez would fucking murder him.” he picked up the marker from the pile of stuff and popped the cap off, “Okay, lean forward, head down, I need to put an outline down first or this is gonna look like ass.”

Simmons obliged, letting out another deep sigh, okay, he could do this, no big deal, the original tattoo had been so much more dangerous than this. It would be fine. But what if Grif cut too far? How thick was the plating back there anyway? And it was segmented pieces too, so how? What if-?

His thoughts were interrupted by Grif lightly tapping the back of his neck with his knuckles.

“Do you feel that? Or is it just nothing? Cuz I don't want to assume you don't and have you start screaming...”

Ah, well.

“Umm... Kind of? It's like...” _Absolutely nothing I could describe or even want to think about if I'm being honest with you which I'm not,_ “It registers different? Like pressure and temperature change and translates it into signals but it's not like-”

“So you're not going to start screaming like I'm murdering you when I start carving?”

“I don't think so? Haven't exactly tried stabbing myself in the neck.”

Grif shrugged, “Good enough! Head down.” he ordered before bracing himself on the back of Simmons' chair and leaned down to be level with the back of his neck, pen in hand.

There was a long pause, followed by a “Huh,” then Grif mumbled, “Right it's not one piece. It's gonna get messed up when it straitens out... Okay! New plan! Head up, I'm gonna have to move you around while I do this.”

Simmons nearly jumped out of what was left of his skin when almost the moment he'd lifted his head up, he felt Grif's hand at the front of his neck, where his throat met his jaw. Thankfully he managed to clamp down on the almost violent urge to jerk away from the touch because honestly where else was Grif's hand supposed to go? It wasn't as easy as just saying how he should move his head, it was far easier to manipulate an object yourself than to ask it to move and hope it was the way you needed it to be.

So steady breaths, in, out, relax, don't like being touched, but he has to do it so just let him do it, it will be fine. Just like last time. Think about something else instead. Don't make it weird.

It took longer than the first time for Grif to mark down the base lines for the tattoo, and Simmons had to admit that it still surprised him just how careful his teammate was when he was doing something he actually wanted to do, or actually cared about.

It was almost scary to think about just how good of a soldier Grif might be if he actually gave a shit.

He also had to admit, he wasn't sure how to feel about himself being the center of Grif's attention, at least for this. It wasn't like anyone else had ever done anything for him like this before. Nothing beyond courtesies that humans were required to give to other humans. You only did things without getting something in return or outside of obligation if the person you were doing them for was important to you in some way; like close friends, a spouse, or lover.

So then what did Grif get out of this? He knew he himself wasn't a particularly remarkable person, despite trying for the entirety of his life to be. So what was it? He didn't have access to anything Grif would want that he couldn't get himself, his teammate seemed to have the ability to get almost anything no matter how absurd, sent out here in their supply drops, Simmons refused to buy “I just asked” as anything more than a blatant lie.

Maybe he just wanted to be owed a favor? He hadn't the last time though... So... If he didn't get anything, then why?

“Lines are done, if I did this right it should overlap just like it's supposed to, so there's no breaks in the pattern no matter what way you move.” Grif sounded very proud, was it for the challenge then? Prove he could do it?

Logic would dictate that Grif was just doing this to be nice. Logic could also go suck ten dicks because that was the biggest load of shit. Ever.

 

 

There was a light clinking sound, obviously Grif picking up one of the tools, because it was followed by a light pressure and a seemingly tentative scratching along the metal plating of the back of his neck. Simmons squirmed, unable to help himself, the implement was immediately pulled away and Grif's grip grew more firm for a moment, holding his head still.

“Whoa hey! Don't move!” Grif blurted, “You cool now? Did it hurt?”

“N-no,” Simmons stammered, guilt welling up at not having held still, “Sorry, it just kind of... Itches? Or tickles? I guess? It's not painful. I just wasn't expecting it.”

“You good now?” Grif repeated.

“Yeah, I'm good. It's cool.”

Relaxing his grip Grif resumed his work, slower for a moment before proceeding normally when it became clear Simmons wasn't going to move anymore. He must be working on the outline, probably with one of the more needle like tools seen on the table before. Simmons let out a slow breath doing his best to not tense up. It wasn't that bad really or at all actually, it was easier to focus and make more sense of the data the sensors under the plating were sending back with his eyes closed. It was normally very unnerving, a churning reminder of his... condition, but it didn't seem too terrible right now, and it was probably important, keep track of how things were going, make sure nothing got fucked up. Sensors were saying... Felt like... So it was registering the pressure, assessment of potential danger, determined to be safe, registration of movement, determined to be non-threatening. It was kind of like... an itch, sort of, like a good sort of scratch? Like when you were itchy? And when you scratched there was that mild sense of relief?

 

…

 

… Grif's hand was warm.

 

Warmer than he'd thought for some reason, not that he had spent any time thinking about it, just... If he'd had to guess he wouldn't have expected him to have warm hands. Though that shouldn't have surprised him if he gave it any serious consideration, Grif was a large man, he had large hands, and he was anything but slender, so more fat, more blood vessels, more body heat. He was just used to his own hands being cold, too thin, too long fingers, lead to bad circulation so obviously less heat. Though that didn't seem to be the case anymore, at least concerning the hand that Grif... now had. It wasn't as warm as his original, the one on his neck, but readings did indicate it was radiating more heat than Simmons' remaining one... He was still registering the pressure just like on the back of his neck, but the temperature seemed to take priority for some reason, or maybe it wasn't really and he was just paying more attention to it? It was kind of distracting though, the warmth he meant, because it would move a little periodically, a little higher near where his ear met his jaw to make him turn or tilt his head a little, a bit closer to the back to make him lean down, back to the front to make him lean up.

In a way, he was glad, it kept him from worrying about all the numerous things that could go wrong.

Grif must have moved to a different tool because the new area was different, larger, data was a bit different, but not unpleasant. The more he thought of it... It was kind of like... Like when someone else combed your hair? Or you listened to ASMR? That kind of... shiver? That wasn't exactly a shiver? A not unpleasant chill. It left a sort of aching sensation somewhere in his chest, not like what he'd felt when he'd realized he wanted the tattoo back, but not unlike it either.

He'd heard once, when he was little, just starting to get into computer science, (things like programming, AI, and the like) that AI enjoyed interacting with large packets of sensory information, that it proved stimulating and created positive pleasurable feelings, like when a human indulged in things they liked, a sort of digital serotonin? What proved to be further interesting was that humans with cybernetic prostheses reported similar feelings or urges to indulge in sensory input, most commonly after it had been reset or calibrated, reports ranged from general feelings of satisfaction and contentment to euphoria. It had struck him as such an interesting similarity which had lead him to discover theories and fiction regarding trans-humanism, where his exploration had stopped because despite being a sci-fi enthusiast (a nerd) the idea of becoming indistinguishable from a machine had scared the crap out of him. It still did. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

But, that must be what this feeling was and the more it went on the sillier it felt to have been frightened by the idea. Or at the very least it was easier not to think about it. It was soothing in a way. Fuck, he really couldn't describe it could he?

He must have drifted off or daydreamed or something because next thing he knew there was a sharp puff of air on the back of his neck, Grif blowing away dust obviously, his shoulders immediately tensed and the startled garbled noise he made was catastrophically embarrassing.

A soft “Sorry.” floated from over his shoulder, and he felt goosebumps across his scalp.

“It's okay. Sorry. I just umm...”

“Wasn't expecting it?”

“Yeah.”

“My bad,” Grif replied, actually sounding a bit sheepish. Did he actually... feel guilty? He must be imagining things because Grif never expressed guilt over anything, ever.

“Does it feel _that_ weird?” the other man continued, “If it is I can stop, it's more or less done I'm just kinda, adding a bit of detail, just making it pop a bit.”

“No, it's not...” Simmons struggled to explain, “It is weird, but it's not bad?”

“Oh...” Well, that was an awkward silence, “It feels _good_..?”

Simmons flushed, “Not in like a weird way, god man, don't do that.”

 

_It's just that my new robot parts are getting 'high' off you touching me, and I kinda think I like it._

 

God even just thinking that made his brain want to hang itself.

 

Grif chuckled, “Just fucking with you dude. Okay, almost done. For real, I promise. One more line.”

Fuck he hoped so, but also kind of wished Grif would be wrong. They'd been doing this for a while, god almost an hour, but it hardly felt like it. Maybe he was just tired? Tired and paranoid and it was making him think weird shit.

Then, of course, Grif moved his hand to steady himself, pressing it flat against the side of his neck to hold him still for what seemed to be an odd angle, and the sensors flashed in delight, other systems immediately flooding his brain with additional information.

 

**Self Assessment:**

**Breathing rate has increased by 2.48%**

**Pulse has increased by 10.29%**

**Core Temperature has increased by .023 degrees**

 

**Subject: DEXTER GRIF**

**Breathing rate increased by 3.17% now decreasing**

**Pulse increased by 8.39% now decreasing.**

**Temperature increased by .011 degrees, now decreasing.**

 

**Information suggests a potentially mutual-**

 

Oh god shut the fuck up. Don't make it weird, please please please don't make it weird. Just stop. Stop before he had a panic attack. Before he freaked out and fucked this up, this one nice thing Grif had ever wanted to do for him in the history of ever, even though he probably had ulterior motives and he was okay with that, really. Just let him have this one nice thing. Nice things didn't happen, he didn't get them because on the exceedingly rare occasion they tried to happen he inevitably fucked it up. So stop it. Stop being weird, stop reminding him how barely qualified to be more than a shitty science project he was now and let him just have this one moment where he could enjoy feeling maybe slightly connected to another human being. Okay?! **OKAY**!?

"Done!" Grif's voice broke him out of his self-destructive thoughts. Oh. Guess he didn't get to enjoy it after all...

Fine. That was fine. Now, this weirdness would go away. Cause that's all it was, just weird feedback caused by his fucked up cybernetic parts. Just electrical feedback messing with his head. That was all. Cause he was a freak and weird and it wasn't at all that he li-

"Hey?" Grif's voice dragged him from his thoughts again close enough that he snapped his head around in surprise, "Dude did you hear me?"

Jesus fuck! _WhywasGrif'sfacesoclosetohis_?!

His teammate's mismatched eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed in what seemed to be a mix of irritation and, was that concern? Could be. Don't get your hopes up.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine." just weird... And why are you so _**close**_!?

Grif hummed, a clear indication that he didn't really believe him. "Really? Cause you seemed kind of out of it before and now you look like you're going to pass out."

God damn it, why was he so transparent all the time? This was because they were always wearing helmets!

"No, I'm- I think I'm just tired. Had a lot of work to do lately, probably just over did it." which wasn't entirely untrue, though implying that he wasn't able to keep up with his workload made the mess of parts where his heart should be, jump with the brief rush of panicked adrenaline and self-loathing. It was better than the alternative, which would be admitting the truth. Which involved feelings and that could only end badly.

"You didn't hurt me" he added quickly, "promise."

That seemed to satisfy Grif, who only stared at him a few more tense moments before pulling away and straitening back up.

And he was absolutely not sad about that! Not at all!

Grif seemed to puzzle a moment, "Shit." he said quietly before waving a dismissing hand at Simmons' immediately alarmed expression, "Dude chill, it's fine. I just realized I don't know how to show this to you. I don't have a camera like last time and you can't see it right with a mirror..."

Simmons reached behind him, trailing artificial fingers along the debossed engraving, sensor input creating a clear image in his mind. Crisp clean edges, razor straight lines and angles, smooth small dot sized circles, the larger circular outline near the center, and...

"Grif? Did you bevel the edges?" he blurted without thinking.

"Bevel? What's that-? Oh! You mean that angle thing on the edges?"

"Yeah."

Grif shrugged, "Just seemed too sharp I guess. Didn't want you to cut yourself or something, got enough bitching on a daily basis from you, to begin with. And I mean, it makes it stand out more right? Pop and shit?"

Opportunity to avoid emotions and return to status quo spotted! The mission is go! Move! Move! Move!

Simmons couldn't help his smile, "Careful, get too excited and you might turn into Donut."

Grif managed to look both scandalized and stricken simultaneously, "Fuck no! Metal working is like the manliest thing, it's not like that at all!"

He received a flat look in response, "Dexter Grif did you just imply that engraving is a job a woman shouldn't be allowed to do?"

"I, what? Fuck no! I-"

"You do know that almost every activity and field was considered in the realm of 'men' until women began doing them too, then suddenly it wasn't 'manly' anymore? What does that say about you Grif?"

Grif spluttered, "No! Dude, I don't give a shit what a girl does. She can do whatever she wants!"

"But you just implied that Donut-"

"DONUT ISN'T A WOMAN!" Grif was almost shrieking, oh this was too good. So rare the opportunity to mess with him.

"Dexter!" Simmons gasped, scandalized, a grin starting to tug at the corners of his mouth, "What is this I hear? Such assumptions! In this, the year- Ack!"

He burst into full on laughter as he quickly stumbled to stable footing when Grif forcibly seized the back of his chair and flipped it forward, forcing Simmons to abandon it, grin on his own face.

"You asshole, did you just political correct me? Did you just meme me? With a prehistoric meme?"

"It's a classic!"

"Classically old as balls!"

Simmons snickered, there, weirdness gone, synergy re-established, norm achieved. Good. Mission accomplished.

 

"Thanks."

 

Grif tilted his head like a confused dog at the non-sequitur.

Simmons gestured to the door already making his way to it, "Come on. Let's go get your camera if we can even find it in your dumpster of a room."

Grif moved to follow him, "It's a helmet, it's not that hard to find. And what do you even want it for?"

"To make sure you did it right," Simmons replied, "gotta make sure it's the same on as before and not a giant dick or something."

"Oh yeah," Grif deadpanned, "you guessed it, it's a dick, no, a _thousand_ dicks."

Simmons laughed and followed Grif as he fake angry walked down the hall towards his room.

 

He'd think of something to repay him, show how grateful he was, that every gesture received was more than he could hope for, more than enough. So he'd think of something, not sure what yet, but something.

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed reading! I'm still not sure if I'm satisfied with the way it ended, but at least it didn't just STOP X) 
> 
> If there are any mistakes let me know and I'll fix them! Also if you have prompts or things you'd like to see I'm open to suggestions! :D


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